


Props

by LadyKailitha



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Ballet Dancer Sherlock, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Fluff, I'm Sorry, It Wasn't Planned, John Plays Rugby, M/M, Mild Angst, Romance, suicide of minor character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-01
Updated: 2016-09-22
Packaged: 2018-05-24 04:59:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 16,223
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6142252
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyKailitha/pseuds/LadyKailitha
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When ballet virtuoso, Sherlock Holmes gets a table at the fanciest restaurant in town for his mother's birthday, he didn't expect the maitre d' to give his table away to rugby champion, John Watson. John, gracious as he is good-looking, offers to share the table. </p>
<p>Sparks fly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Welp, that was fast. I barely put up the final chapter of "A Shift in Priorities" less than a week ago, and already I have a new story for you. 
> 
> There are few tropes I enjoy, and even less I want to do myself, but this is definitely one of them. My dream is to one day to the fake relationship trope. Anyway. While Sherlock and John is a ballet dancer and a rugby player respectively, don't expect a lot of technical terms for either. I know very little of either one, so if you see an error, let me know. 
> 
> Like with "Shift" I do have a lot of the story written, the trouble is finding the time to type things up. I have a new schedule that allows me to write between calls at the end of the night, but I am usually too tired to do much of anything when I get home. So expect erratic postings. 
> 
> Thanks to my ever wonderful and faithful beta, Old Ping Hai. I've been threatening to do this trope for a looooooong time and she is absolutely thrilled that I've finally started. Even though I tossed my original idea of over 2000 words written out the window and started anew.
> 
> EDIT: I finished writing the story and changed the date of their first meeting. After doing a bit more research on the ballet and rugby seasons, February isn't doable. Oops! I'm usually better at researching than that. So please forgive my error.

Angelo's was the new hit restaurant in town. Exclusive to the extreme and a waiting list that could stretch for months. Sherlock had had his reservation on the books since September and with it nearing the end of December, he was quite looking forward to taking his mother out for her birthday.

Mrs Holmes was really excited as well; she had been telling all her friends what a good son Sherlock was to take her to this fancy new place for her birthday.

She twittered happily when they got out of the car and stood there looking at the fancy front entrance while Sherlock handed off the keys to the valet. Sherlock ushered her in and up to the maitre d's station.

"Excuse me, I have a seven o'clock reservation for two. Holmes," he said.

The young woman looked over her list. "I'm sorry, I don't see you here. Are you sure you made the reservation?"

"Yes, I even called to confirm it an hour ago," Sherlock said through clenched teeth.

The maitre d' looked over her list again. "Oh, here it is. I erased it because you weren't here at 7, so I gave it away."

Sherlock nearly turned red from rage. "What! We are only a few minutes late and you gave our table away?"

The young woman sneered, "Well, you should have been on time, then."

"Oh dear," Mrs Holmes murmured. "We would have been, but there was this horrible accident that slowed everything down."

"That's hardly my fault," the maitre d' complained.

"It's not ours either!" Sherlock bellowed.

"We have an opening in..." she said, looking at her list. "In April."

"That's _months_ away!" Sherlock screeched.

"It's all right, Sherlock, dear," Mrs Holmes soothed. "It was a silly old wish anyway."

"No, it's not, Mummy. I will not be put out because this twit couldn't use her brain!"

"Sir, I'm going to need you to calm down. You are making a scene," she sniffed.

"You want a scene? I'll give you a-"

"Pardon," a new voice interrupted. "Is there a problem?"

The maitre d' lit up. "Oh, Mr Watson!" she crowed. "It's nothing to worry about. Some people will try anything to get a table here."

Sherlock whirled away from her to pounce on the unsuspecting newcomer, but when his eyes lit on the man, he was blown away. Here was this fit, blond, smiling stranger in a shiny silver suit which really should have looked ridiculous, but really didn't. It took Sherlock's brain a few seconds to catch up.

"I had a reservation which this _idiot_ ," Sherlock said, sticking out his thumb toward the maitre d', "gave away because we were only five minutes late."

Mr Watson looked back to his table and then around Sherlock to look at the maitre d'. He frowned.

"Did you give me his table?" he asked.

"Of course I did," she said proudly.

"But you told me that the other party had canceled, when I arrived at a quarter til," Mr Watson said, his frown deepening.

"Well, when John Watson, the star of the London rugby team, comes in with his super model girlfriend, of course he's going to get priority over some nobody and his mummy." She made the last word sound like an insult.

"What's wrong with someone wanting to treat his mother to a nice dinner?" John asked.

The maitre d' rolled her eyes and then spoke slowly, "Because this is an upscale restaurant. If you want to take your mother out to dinner, go to some franchise."

Sherlock reeled from the sheer stupidity of the statement.

Just as Sherlock was drawing breath for another tirade, a second woman came up to the station.

"Oh, Mr Holmes!" she said, drawing up short. "I hope Julie here is being accommodating."

Sherlock's face took on a feral grin. "Actually, she isn't. She gave my table away to this man," he said, pointing to John.

"You know Mr Holmes?" Julie asked the newcomer.

"Of course I do. Sherlock Holmes, the premier ballet dancer who danced this Christmas to rave reviews in 'Swan Lake'.

Sherlock blushed and murmured, "Thank you."

"Julie, is it true that you gave away his table to someone else?" the other woman asked.

"He was late," Julie insisted.

"She gave me the table before she knew he would be, though," John defended Sherlock.

"Julie!"

"Oh come off it, Barbara. How was I supposed to know he was famous, it's not like I know anything about ballet," Julie complained.

Barbara sighed. "It's not about who is more famous or less, it's about respecting our customers. And just turning around and giving a table to someone else isn't acceptable. Were this the first time, I would let it slide. But you _keep_ doing it."

"What's point the of having a job at a posh place if you can't give your favorite rock star or sports player a little something on the side?" Julie grumbled.

"Because if we do it for one person then other people will start demanding that we do it for them, too. We take Mark Strong's table and give it to Becks, and he tells people that he can get any seat in our restaurant he wants, then other people come in thinking they are more famous than he is and demand that they be given a table, too. And that simply cannot happen!"

"Whatever," Julie said, rolling her eyes.

"I didn't want to do this, but with your clear lack of respect for the rules, I'm going to have to fire you. Grab your things and go. You can pick up your last check on Friday," Barbara said, with a sigh.

Julie opened her mouth to squawk, but Barbara held up her hand. "I have given you too many chances as it is. Go."

Julie stormed off.

"I'm really sorry for this, Mr Holmes," Barbara said after watching Julie leave. "What can I do to make this right?"

John looked between the manager and Sherlock. "He can come share our table, or rather we can share his, if he and his mother are amenable."

Sherlock was torn. He wanted to treat his mother, but the thought of having to share a table with someone he didn't know was abhorrent. He looked over at his mother, who looked hopeful at the prospect, and he caved.

"If your date doesn't object," Sherlock said. "Then neither do we."

Barbara looked as though she was going to kiss John right there on the rug. "That would really make things easier for everyone, if you could."

John smiled, "It won't be a problem."

* * *

 

This was a problem, Cathy fumed. How the hell was she supposed to seduce John with Mr Posh and his simpering mother there? At first it wasn't a big deal; Cathy thought she could get rid of them by being overly sexual to John. But no...instead, John would smile at her and then look back over to this posh arsehole. Cathy was going to start screaming.

She turned her attention back to John who was speaking, "Christ! I couldn't do what you dancers do."

Cathy waved her hand. "Don't be ridiculous, John. Of course you can and do. It's all the same thing, running and jumping. Only in rugby, you have the added worry of someone trying to tackle you. What you do is far more dangerous than any ballet."

John beamed at her, but that git had to stick his nose into it.

"We have to dance for two hours straight with no time outs and no backup string if we get injured. I have seen dancers perform on broken bones, sprained ankles, and even pulled tendons. All while looking as graceful and beautiful as possible. The pain mustn't show on our faces. Our female principals who do pointe can break bones in their toes, ankles, and calves if they don't build up their muscles properly. I'm one of a few male dancers who can do pointe. It is painful and beautiful."

"Wow," John said. "Why would you do that if you don't have to? I'm guessing that male dancers don't have to learn it, if there are so few of you that do."

"Mostly men do it for comedic effect," Sherlock admitted, "men doing the female roles, but there's a movement to see more of us take on pointe for other roles as well. Matthew Bourne's 'Swan Lake' is famous for having all male swans, and more and more directors are looking into doing similar things. As for why I do it, well...I push myself to be the best at everything. Also it helps connect with my female leads if I know what pain they are going through."

Cathy huffed. "And you expect us to believe all that?" She sat back in her chair and crossed her arms. "You clearly haven't seen a game of rugby in your life if you claim what you do is more painful."

"Hey, Cath," John soothed. "It's okay. He's just a bit defensive because dancers don't get a lot of credit for what they do, and the men are seen as gay."

Mrs Holmes smirked. "Which is something I never understood really. How is it that my son gets labeled a fairy when he gets to be around women in tight outfits, while rugby players, who roll around in the dirt with other men, aren't?"

John snorted and then started to laugh. "Point to ballet!" he crowed.

They finished their meal shortly after that. They were all standing around under the valet awning waiting for the valets to return with their cars.

"It was nice meeting you and your mother, Mr Holmes," John said, reaching out to shake Sherlock's hand.

"Mr Holmes is my father, call me Sherlock," he replied, taking John's hand.

"It was our pleasure, Mr Watson," Mrs Holmes said with a smile.

"Call me John," John said.

"John," Sherlock repeated, enjoying the way the rugby player's name felt on his tongue. It was warm and made him want to say it over and over again.

Their hands lingered a fraction too long to be considered friendly, but if anyone noticed, no one said a thing.

"If you ever decide to come see one of our home games, just give me a call and I'll get you as many seats as you need," John said, scribbling his number on the back of a business card that had John's manager's number on the front for endorsement deals and the like.

Sherlock took it with a small, sweet smile on his face. "And of course, if you and Kitty-"

"Cathy!" Cathy snapped.

"Whatever," Sherlock said, waving her protest away. "If you want to come to one of our performances, I'll make sure to leave two tickets under your name at the will call."

Cathy wanted to seethe in rage, but John only shone with sheer happiness.

"Our car is here," Cathy said, pointing at the valet who had just pulled up.

"Right," John said. "Again, pleasure to meet you both."

"The pleasure is all ours, I assure you," Mrs Holmes said, with a tender smile.

Sherlock helped his mother into their car and looked back to see John smiling at him. He thought John was the most interesting person he had ever met.

John thought that Sherlock was the most beautiful creature he had ever laid eyes on.

Mrs Holmes was grateful that her birthday hadn't been ruined.

Cathy, on the other hand, just wanted to get John home and rip all his clothes off before she withered from sexual frustration.

Both cars drove off, going their separate ways.

Leaving John and Sherlock feeling bereft, and a bitter ache settled in their chests.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Much apologies, with work being busy and my beta have a couple of hectic weeks, it took a bit to get this typed up and ready for viewing. 
> 
> But here it is. The story is complete and all it will take is time to type up a chapter. And while I can write at work, I can't type at work. I tried. I thought that I could email it to myself, but alas, my work email is intranet only and was not meant to be. So sorry. 
> 
> But I will try to keep up with typing up the story as much as I can. 
> 
> Thanks to Old Ping Hai, who is always there when I need her to be, and is really good at figuring out what I MEANT to say even if what is on the page is complete gibberish.

John watched as Cathy got dressed. She appeared to be quite satisfied after the sex, but John only felt disappointment. It was middling at best, and he barely got off.  
  
“Why do you have to go?” he asked. He hoped to convince her to stay; at least if she stayed then he could figure out where it had all gone wrong.   
  
“I have work in the morning, baby,” Cathy said as she hunted around for her bra.   
  
“So, sneak out in the morning,” he suggested.  
  
“And do the ‘Walk of Shame’? No thanks, I’m not that kind of girl,” she said with a wink.   
  
John laughed, but it was sharp and bitter. “When will I see you again?”  
  
Cathy stopped in the middle of hopping on one foot trying to get her shoe on. “Um...well, I’ll be on location for a couple of days, so probably not until the weekend.”  
  
John sighed.   
  
“Oh come on, baby, don’t be like that,” she said leaning over to kiss him. “You wouldn’t want to me to quit doing what I love, would you?” She batted her eyelashes and simpered at him.  
  
“No, of course not, but...” John said.   
  
“I know,” she said, kissing him one more time. “But I’ll be back before you know it.”   
  
John nodded and watched as she dashed out the door. He flopped back on the bed and cursed. He actually felt relieved that he wasn’t going to be seeing her until the weekend. He could stop playing the good boyfriend.   
  
It was exhausting being with her. She was always rude to people that she didn’t think were on her “level”. It was like that old adage, “If you want to see a person for how they really are, watch how they treat others less than themselves.” And boy, was she awful.  
  
Okay, so Sherlock wasn’t much better, but he was only rude to Cathy because she was rude to him first. John wanted to run his fingers through Sherlock’s hair...  
  
Where had that thought come from?   
  
Okay, so he knew where that thought had come from. He was seriously attracted to the dancer. Even though Sherlock had been in a perfectly tailored suit, John couldn’t help but imagine him in tights and nothing else. It was a real problem.   
  
A real problem that was starting to manifest below his waist. Just thinking about those thick curls, those long eyelashes that framed those amazing technicolored eyes, that long, lean body, whose legs went on for miles. Yes, it was a real problem.   
  
One he was going to have to deal with soon, if he kept this up.   
  
His phone pinged and he picked it up. He had a text from an unknown number. It read:  
  
 _Goodnight, John_ - _SH_  
  
And just like that, his desire melted away into something warmer, something more akin to affection.  
  
 _Goodnight, Sherlock -John_ , he replied  
  
John stared at the text message for a long time, before drifting off to sleep with the phone in his hand. 

* * *

 

Sherlock wasn’t sure what possessed him to text John before he went to sleep, only that he was more than a little pleased and very much surprised when John texted him back. He held down his thumb over the message and saved it. He wanted to make sure he kept the first message of what he hoped to be many more.  
  
He woke up the next morning to a text from John wishing him a good morning. A warm feeling washed over him. It was starting to get ridiculous how much this one person had turned his entire world on its head.   
  
His mother had spent the whole ride back to her hotel praising John to the sky. It also didn’t hurt that she also criticized John’s girlfriend. Sherlock couldn’t figure out what John saw in her. He figured it must be a superficial attraction to her looks or...Sherlock made a face, other _assets_.   
  
This was why Sherlock was gay. He really couldn’t see the appeal in the other sex. Give him a broad, flat chest, tanned skin, blue eyes that shone like sapphires, and sun-kissed blonde hair. Sherlock cursed. He had just described John.   
  
Apparently, he had a type.   
  
He grabbed his dance bag and stomped out of his flat. Or as much as someone could who had spent his whole life learning how to tread lightly.   
  
But by the time he arrived at the Royal Opera House, he had traded a half dozen messages with John, and he was smiling like a loon.   
  
Soon the chorus girls had spread all over the theatre that brooding Sherlock Holmes was smiling and not his usual “Someone has done something wrong and I’m about to eviscerate them” smile, either. An honest-to-goodness happy smile. That wasn’t to say that Sherlock never laughed or smiled with the rest of the cast, but this was different. This was a smile from his heart.   
  
By the time they finished the warm-ups, it had spread all through the building that Sherlock Holmes was honest-to-God, genuinely happy for the first time in years. Since....  
  
The director, Greg Lestrade, came storming into the practice room and skidded to a stop. He had thought that the other dancers were having him on, but there was Sherlock with a grin on his face and his phone in his hand as he replied to someone. Someone who apparently made the dour dancer light up.   
  
“Christ!” Greg cursed and Sherlock looked up. He saw the expression on his director’s face and blushed. He put the phone away and moved to stand next to the bar.   
  
“Oh no you don’t,” Greg growled. “Grab your things, I want to speak with you.”   
  
Sherlock sighed. “Is this really necessary?”   
  
“Yes, now scoot.”   
  
Sherlock grabbed his bag and led the way to Greg’s office. He tossed his bag on the floor and threw himself into a nearby chair. Greg closed the door behind him and sat down in his own chair.   
  
“I don’t know what the big deal is, it’s not as though I do this sort of thing often,” Sherlock defended, his arms crossed in front of his chest.   
  
“What? Come in smiling like a bloody loon?” Greg asked.   
  
“Oh. I thought you were upset about the mobile phone being out when I should have been warming up,” he admitted.   
  
“Well there’s that, too. But hell, Sherlock, I’m not mad, I’m curious. Who has the great Sherlock Holmes smiling like that?”   
  
Sherlock ducked his head and then reached into his bag and tossed Greg the phone. “You know the pass code,” Sherlock growled.   
  
“Only for your own protection,” Greg muttered as he went searching through the messages. “So who is he then? This John fellow?”  
  
“He’s no one,” Sherlock muttered.  
  
“Bollocks!” Greg said. “You don’t put yourself out there for just anyone. I thought you took your mother out to dinner last night.”   
  
“I did!”   
  
“So how did you meet this guy?” Greg pressed.   
  
So Sherlock told him the whole story.   
  
“So that’s it? Two hours with you, your mum, this bloke, and his girlfriend, and you’re over the moon?” Greg questioned.  
  
“It’s not like that, he’s a...well, he’s not even a friend at this point,” Sherlock murmured. “An acquaintance at best.”   
  
“Oh my god,” Greg breathed. “You’re in love with him. You fell hard and fast for this feller, didn’t you?”  
  
“No!”   
  
“Look at your face, Sherlock,” Greg said. He turned off the phone and pointed the inky black surface toward the dancer. Sherlock took it and frowned into the glass. But just then another message came in from John and his face lit up.   
  
“It’s my face,” Sherlock growled as he responded back to John.   
  
“And it is genuinely happy, Sherlock,” Greg insisted. “So tell me about this bloke.”   
  
Sherlock sighed. There was nothing for it; if Greg of all people could see it then there was no point hiding it. “He’s a rugby player, the star of the London team, apparently.”   
  
Greg looked down at Sherlock’s phone and then back up to Sherlock’s face. “John Watson? John Watson is your beau?”  
  
Sherlock blushed and nodded. “Which would make the girlfriend Cathy Reilly, super model and fashion blogger. Christ, Sherlock, you sure do know how to pick them.”   
  
“It’s nothing,” Sherlock maintained.   
  
“Whatever this is, Sherlock it is most assuredly not 'nothing’,” Greg replied. 

* * *

John spent the morning messaging Sherlock back and forth. He couldn’t keep the smile off his face every time he got a new message from the dancer. He felt giddy. He hadn’t felt this way when he first started dating Cathy. Or Mary, or Gail, or hell even Hugh or Darren. That wasn’t to say he wasn’t happy when they called or messaged him, but there was something in Sherlock’s demeanor that suggested that he didn’t do this sort of thing, and that made John feel special somehow.   
  
His head was in the clouds and his teammates were teasing him about Cathy, and that she couldn’t be that good to throw the Watson War Machine off his game. So to prove them wrong, he went out there and wailed on their arses.   
  
“Shite, Watson! I’ll be sore for hours, even with the Doc’s help,” Bill Murray complained. Bill was one of their best players and John’s best friend.   
  
“That’s what you get for saying I’m off my game,” John yelled from the showers.   
  
Dr. Mike Stamford chuckled. “So did you go to that restaurant I suggested?” he asked, as he worked lotion into a tight muscle on Bill’s thigh.   
  
Just then John’s phone went off and he made a mad dash for it, completely starkers. But when he flipped the phone over to see who it was, he set it down and let it ring out. He wandered back into the showers.   
  
Mike and Bill exchanged a glance.   
  
Mike waited until everyone but John had gone before sitting on the bench behind the rugby player as he finished getting dressed.   
  
“Was that Harry then?” Mike asked, referring to other call John had gotten earlier.   
  
“No, god no!” John moaned. He banged his head against the locker door in frustration. “She’s fine. Doing really good, actually.”   
  
“So who was it, then?” Mike pressed.   
  
“Cathy,” John said, sliding down the locker to sit on the floor. He looked up at Mike, completely miserable.   
  
“You were happy with her before practice,” Mike noted.   
  
“Oh, god, I am an awful human being,” John said, banging his head against locker again. “I wasn’t thinking about her, there was this bloke I met last night; the maitre d’ gave me his table, so I offered to share. He is so amazing and clever and gorgeous!”   
  
“You do remember you have a girlfriend, right?” Mike asked, concerned.   
  
“One that everyone says is only with me because I’m famous,” John said. He lifted his head. “Including you, I might add.”   
  
Mike shrugged. “So what are you going to do?” He held out his hand to John. The rugby player took it and let Mike help him stand.   
  
John sat down next to Mike on the bench. “I feel like a heel breaking up with her because I’m getting moony-eyed over some dancer bloke I just met.”   
  
“But are you really breaking up with her for that reason?” Mike asked. He elbowed his friend in the ribs. “There are other things that bother you about Cathy; call this bloke, this dancer, the final straw.”   
  
John nodded. “Thanks, Mike.”   
  
Mike nodded and left John by himself, but as he opened the door he heard John say, “Cathy? Yeah, this is John, we need to talk.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also, I CANNOT resist making Mike Stamford the reason John and Sherlock meet, no matter what universe it is.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *checks the calendar* At least it's not the six weeks it was between one and two. *winces* Yeah, sorry about that. Life has pretty much kicked me in the teeth lately. Depression is really not a respecter of time. It likes to show up when the least welcome. But, I appear to be on an upswing. I just hope it lasts long enough to get the next chapter typed up.
> 
> This is kinda a warm up chapter, it was originally much longer. But I was counting pages I had left and went "holy crap!" so the next chapter will move the plot forward a bit more. Enjoy lovelies!

Sherlock took a long sip of his club soda, clutching the glass tightly as he tried to stop his whirling thoughts from spinning wildly out of control. His glass was taken away from him and another with a deep amber liquid inside pressed into his hand.

He nearly drained the brandy in one go, wincing as it slid down his throat. "Thank you," he said.

The tall, dark-skinned young man sat beside him, "Of course, what are friends for?"

Sherlock scoffed, "Apparently, plying me with hard liquor."

"When the alternative is watching you twitch, I'll take plying you with booze any day."

Sherlock took another sip. "What am I doing here, Victor? Seriously, what?"

"You mean other than hoping to run into a certain rugby player?" Victor teased.

"Are you sure he's going to be here?" Sherlock asked, staring into the remaining amber liquid.

"Look, this is the event of the season; the Albus M Worthington Foundation, helping to bring literacy back into sports. No one in their right mind would miss this, not if they still wanted endorsements afterwards. Besides, Dale told me he was coming," Victor nudged his friend with his elbow. "You aren't the only one in the company to have a sporty boyfriend, you know."

Sherlock glared at him, "He's not my boyfriend."

"Not yet."

Just then the crowd parted to reveal John Watson, chatting with a pretty blonde who kept touching his arm, his shoulder, his face.

Sherlock wasn't sure which emotion took dominance. It seemed like there was a battle between fear, jealousy, anger, and distress. Victor nudged him again.

Sherlock's eyes snapped from the scene in front of him to Victor's face.

"Calm down there, tiger," Victor admonished. "That's his sister and manager, Harry."

Once Victor had pointed it out, Sherlock could see the family resemblance. Which was actually worse; suddenly he had the overwhelming desire to run.

"What am I doing here?" Sherlock moaned again.

Victor rolled his eyes and said firmly, "You are here being a good friend to me, staying with me while my boyfriend is off charming people, and of course supporting a good cause."

"And what a lovely cause it is, too," rumbled a smooth voice above them.

Sherlock looked up to see John standing there. He squeaked and pointed to Victor, "It's his fault I'm here!"

John laughed. "Well, thank you..." he raised an eyebrow, asking silently for the other man's name.

"Victor, Victor Trevor," Victor replied.

"Thank you for bringing him, Victor, it was such a pleasant surprise."

Sherlock blushed and decided to deflect the attention from himself. "I don't see Thingy, what's her name?"

John raised both eyebrows before he caught on to whom Sherlock was referring. "You mean Cathy?" When Sherlock nodded, he said, "Uh...yeah, no. Turns out that not only was she trying to use me to boost her own career, she was also sleeping with at least two other rugby players, a footballer, a photographer, and her publicist. I don't know how she managed it; honestly, it sounded exhausting."

"Ouch." Sherlock winced in sympathy.

"Bitch," was Victor's contribution.

"Agreed!" John replied.

"You should come over to the dark side, we have pretty male dancers," Victor teased.

"Victor!" Sherlock said warningly. "Gays are not the dark side," he cast a sidelong glance at John and then continued with a mischievous gleam in his eye, "straights are."

Victor and John laughed.

"It's a good thing I'm neither, then," John said with a wink.

"Oh?" Victor asked.

"Bisexual. I like both."

"Is this idiot bothering you?" a cool voice asked from behind John.

The rugby player turned around to see Langdale Pike, the star forward for Manchester United, hands in his pockets and a wicked grin on his face.

"Dale!" John greeted cheerfully. "I guess it depends on which one is your idiot."

Victor and Sherlock both protested. Dale dragged Victor to his feet and pressed the tall dancer into the footballer's even longer side.

"I hate you," Victor grumbled, sticking out his lip in a pout.

Dale gave his boyfriend a good, long kiss before murmuring, "No you don't." He nuzzled Victor's neck. "You love me."

"God only knows why," Victor grumped.

Dale whispered something in Victor's ear that made him blush. "Well, there is that," he agreed.

Dale laughed. "You'll excuse us, gentlemen, I'm stealing my boyfriend back," he said, his eyes never leaving Victor.

"Hey!" Sherlock protested. "You can't take him back, he's supposed to stay with me!"

Dale looked over at John, "I think you're in _very_ good hands." He winked at Sherlock and then led a very pliable Victor away.

John huffed out a laugh. "He certainly is a force of nature, both on and off the field. Christ!"

Sherlock mumbled an agreement. "And if half the stories Victor tells are true, in bed as well."

John turned to stare at Sherlock, "Too much information, mate."

Sherlock smirked.

* * *

"This is a bad idea," Sherlock grumbled, sinking further into his chair.

He was sitting in the VIP box at the Baker Street Sports Centre watching a pre-season exhibition match with the London rugby team. They were playing against Sussex.

Victor nudged him with his shoulder. "This is a very good idea. Trust me, the shorts alone are worth it."

Sherlock looked around at his friends and tried to sit a little straighter. He'd brought his closest friends so that John wouldn't think he was on a date. Besides Victor, there were Janine and Molly. Molly was a chorus dancer and Janine was a principal dancer. Sitting there glowering at them was Greg.

"Some of us are actually here to watch the game, not ogle buff men in tight uniforms," Greg grumbled.

"Only because your boyfriend would kill you if ogled in the slightest," Janine teased.

Greg blushed.

"You'll be okay," Molly said, putting her hand on her Sherlock's arm. He smiled wanly back.

"I don't know anything about rugby!" Sherlock protested.

"Neither do most of us," Janine admitted. "We just come to see buff men run around in tight kits, hitting each other."

"Yum," Victor agreed.

"Oi!" Greg hollered. "I'm here for the game." He then launched into an explanation of the sport that everyone but Sherlock tuned out. He leaned forward, soaking up everything he could on the sport that John loved.

Once the game actually started, however, Sherlock found it very hard to watch. Not because it was boring. Oh, no. It was because seeing John in his kit, covered in blood, sweat, and mud made him very aroused.

By halftime Sherlock was very uncomfortable, crossing and uncrossing his legs.

"Someone is having fun," Janine teased as she looked down at his lap.

"Yes, thank you, Janine, shut it!" Sherlock growled.

Janine laughed and even Molly giggled.

"You lot are terrible," Greg said, rolling his eyes.

Sherlock pulled his coat tighter around himself to prevent any further comments on his state. He watched the rest of the match trying to think of everything and anything to make it more bearable, but by the end he was very much in the same condition. He hoped that he could duck out before John caught him so that he didn't have to see the blond like this.

But it appeared that whatever higher power was out there decided to torment Sherlock instead. As the players came off the field, John dashed up to the VIP box. He banged on it and then motioned to have Sherlock meet him in the corridor. Sherlock sighed heavily.

Victor and Janine snickered. They all followed Sherlock out to where John was waiting for them.

"Hey!" John greeted, practically bouncing on his heels as he waved them over. "Did you guys enjoy the game?" he asked everyone, but his eyes never left Sherlock's.

Sherlock blushed, but everyone said they had.

"Fantastic!" John said, beaming up at Sherlock. "Hey, me and a couple of the boys are going out to get something to eat, why don't you and your friends join us?"

Everyone looked to Sherlock, who was standing there, stunned.

John reached up and touched his forearm, "So, what do you say, Sherlock?" he asked, his voice low and warm and really not helping Sherlock's _dilemma_. "You want to go out to eat with us?" John said 'us', but everyone knew he was really saying 'me.'

Sherlock nodded, unable to speak for fear of his voice cracking. He cleared his throat. "Sure, I'm game," he said, just barely managing to make his voice sound normal.

"Great," John said. "I'll make sure you guys get any drinks you want while you wait. It shouldn't be too long."

He squeezed Sherlock's arm and trailed his hand down, his fingers brushing Sherlock's palm before he let go.

Sherlock couldn't speak.

"Right," Janine huffed. "Did we even _exist_?" she asked after a moment.

"Seriously," Victor pouted. "I usually warrant some kind of glance."

"He didn't even glance at my tits," Janine agreed, indicating her very revealing blouse.

Molly blushed. "I'm sure he was just excited to see Sherlock is all."

Greg laughed. "Excited doesn't even cover it, Molls, that man is arse over tits in love with Sherlock."

Sherlock opened his mouth to protest, but he could find no words, no evidence to the contrary. But every fiber of his being rejected the thought; they barely knew each other. They had exchanged calls and texts, but had only seen each other all of three times, this being the third. It just wasn't possible that John Watson was in love with him.

A short while later, John came back clean and in a nice suit. Trailing behind him were three men: a jovial-looking, round man with glasses; a toothy redhead; and an older-looking man built on strong, sturdy lines, from his chin and broad shoulders to his thighs and barrel-chest.

"Hey!" John greeted. "These are my best mates, Mike Stamford," pointing to the one in glasses, who waved, "Bill Murray," he thumbed at the red-head, who flashed them an even toothier smile, "and the captain of our team, James Sholto." The remaining man just nodded shyly.

John looked expectedly at Sherlock to introduce his friends. Sherlock coughed. "This is Victor, Molly, Janine, and Greg," he said, pointing to each of them in turn.

Bill's eyes roved over the all of them before settling on Greg. He looked him up and down before saying, "This lot is most certainly dancers, but you, you I can't get a read on."

Greg puffed up his chest and opened his mouth to say when Molly spoke first, "This is our director, Greg Lestrade."

"And my handler," Sherlock groused. "Who's sleeping with my brother." The look of disgust was clear on his face.

"He's just trying to look after you," Greg said.

"Well, I don't need it," Sherlock growled.

"Like _hell_ you don't," Greg scoffed.

Before the discussion got too heated Janine stepped between them and turned to John. "So where are we going?"

John's focus was pulled off Sherlock and back to the present. "Huh? Oh, sorry. I hope you guys like burgers, Toby's has the best burgers in Soho."

The dancers all turned hungrily to Greg. "You would pick that," Greg complained.

"Why? What's wrong with burgers?" John asked.

"Too much fatty protein," Sherlock explained. "Sometimes if we're good, we get pizza."

"We could go somewhere else," John said, frowning, trying to think of someplace else to go.

"No," Greg grumbled. "It's fine," he turned to his dancers. "But I don't want to hear a single peep out of you lot tomorrow, do I make myself clear?"

They all nodded. "Good."

The dancers cheered and the rugby boys laughed.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, well you look at that, it's only been two weeks. Yay! Um...well, sort of? There is a wee bit of angst in this one and tiny cliffhanger. 
> 
> But yay! New chapter. And I think because of the raise in level of angst it has made me a bit anxious. But here you go!

Molly looked around and said, "So how are we getting there? Greg drove all of us."

John looked around, too. "Well, we all drove our own cars, but there's no need for that many cars. Let's see," he counted off people in his head, "there are nine of us. Five of you and four of us...and since we've all been there," he pointed to his friends, "we can put at least one of us in each car to give directions."

"So who wants to drive with the lovebirds?" Greg asked with a grin, looking suggestively at John and Sherlock. The latter of whom blushed.

"Ooh! Ooh! Me!" Victor said, hopping up and down, his hand raised high in the air. Everyone turned to Victor, looking at him as if he was this strange creature.

"What?" Victor asked. "I am perfectly willing to third-wheel it. I have a boyfriend, I can text him if they get too gooey."

John looked torn. "But I promised James that he could drive with me."

Sherlock looked over at the rugby captain and then back to John. He felt like a bucket of cold water had been dumped over his head. The expression on James's face was one of undisguised yearning. Here was someone who loved John. And John had promised him that they could ride together? Sherlock didn't know what to do.

Everyone seemed oblivious to Sherlock's inner turmoil, everyone but James it seemed. He stepped forward.

"It's fine, John," he said with a smile that didn't seem to reach his eyes. "I wanted to ride with Bill and discuss that play in the second half. And since Sherlock and Victor want to ride with you, I could ride with him and one of the others."

"Are you sure, James?"

The rugby captain nodded and this time he did smile sincerely.

"Hey, I'll go with ya!" Greg said. "I'd love to pick your brains on the inner workings of your sport."

"Looks like that leaves the ladies with Mike," John said, relieved.

"Which is a good thing," Mike said with a wink. "You can trust me to be a gentleman, unlike these fatheads."

John looked at Bill and James and then all three men jumped Mike. They began to tickle the doctor.

"Oi!" Mike called out. "Watch the glasses!"

Bill took them off and handed them out to the nearest person. Molly squeaked and took the glasses from him.

She walked back to Greg, "Do you think we should help him?

Greg barked out a laugh. "Nah! It looks like they're winding down."

And sure enough, all four men laid in a heap on the floor, still laughing.

The plump doctor huffed, "That's it! Next time you lot can deal with your own sore muscles."

The rugby players helped him to his feet, murmuring apologies and offering to buy him drinks as recompense.

Mike grudgingly agreed. "All right, who has my glasses?"

Molly shyly walked up to Mike and handed them to him.

Janine raised an eyebrow as she watched her friend awkwardly flirt with Mike, tucking her hair behind her ear and smiling at him.

Janine sidled up to Victor, whose head was bent over his phone. "Looks like you aren't the only one who will be stuck with a pair of lovebirds."

Victor looked up from his message to catch Molly dust off a flake of imaginary lint from Mike's jacket.

"Well, that is interesting!" he agreed. "You planning your own hookup, Janine?" He looked pointedly at where James and Bill were chatting with Greg.

"Oh hell, no," Janine said, putting her hands on her hips. "One's gay and the other's Scottish."

Victor laughed. "Aww, the wee Irish lass following her nationality's natural prejudice against the Scots, tsk, tsk, tsk," he said in the worst Irish accent imaginable.

"Careful, Victor or I'll show you why they call Ireland the land of Eire," she threatened.

Victor just laughed again.

The ride over to the restaurant started tense for Sherlock, but soon the knowledge that Victor had his back regardless of what happened tonight with John had him almost fully relaxed by the time they got there. John, of course, helped Sherlock feel at ease, too. He kept the conversation light and since Sherlock was driving, never took his eyes off the dancer.

By the end of the night Sherlock was sure that there was nothing currently between John and his captain, James Sholto, but that didn't soothe him like he thought it would. No, his mind filled with the possibilities of what might happen in those steamy locker rooms.

John nudged Sherlock and even whispered in his ear, "He is just a friend, Sherlock. I only have eyes for you."

Sherlock blushed and bumped John back. But you can't kill a thought once it has made a home in your head.

* * *

 

John sat in one of the best boxes at the Royal Opera House, his left fist clenching and unclenching.

"For fuck's sake, John, calm down," Mike hissed for what felt let the hundredth time since they sat down.

John had invited Mike to make use of Sherlock's offered tickets, figuring that the good doctor would want to see Molly dance and that he would be the one person Sherlock wouldn't freak out over, thinking he was John's date.

"What if I hate it? Or fall asleep? Oh god! What if I start snoring?" John asked, panic rising.

"You won't fall asleep. If nothing else, Sherlock in tights will keep you awake," Mike said with a chuckle.

"Okay, fine, but what if I hate it," John persisted.

"So what if you do?" Mike asked with a shrug.

"But this is his life. His existence. I'd be hating a major part of him."

Mike thumped the back of John's head.

"Oi! What was that for?" John complained, rubbing the back of his head.

"You're being an idiot and you know it. You either suck it up and watch it, knowing that it bores you to tears but you love him enough to come see him anyway, or you walk away."

John thought about it for a moment and then nodded.

Mike looked at him, and when he was convinced that John wasn't going to say anything else stupid, he turned back to the stage.

"Thanks for inviting me, by the way, your angst notwithstanding," he said after a moment.

"You're welcome. I didn't want to do this alone and well..." John shook his head.

"He _still_ thinks that you are going to run off with James?" Mike asked.

"We've had conversations via text and over the phone about it, but he can't let it go. Though, when we are together he doesn't bring it up."

"I think he's scared," Mike said wisely.

"Of what?" John squawked.

"That one day you'll wake up and decide that you two are too different."

John opened his mouth to speak, but that is when the house lights dimmed. The show was starting.

John sat back to watch.

The curtain went up and a spotlight came on, highlighting the lone figure on the stage. The dark head rose and Sherlock began to dance.

John would have liked to have said that he only had eyes for Sherlock, but the entire thing enchanted him. The way they were able to convey the whole story without uttering a single phrase or warble a tune. It was magnificent.

When the curtain fell for intermission, John found himself at the edge of his seat, mouth hanging open, and his hands gripping the arm rests. He sat back and unclenched his fingers trying to restore life back into them.

"So, I'm guessing you liked it then?" Mike asked with a twinkle of mischief in his eyes.

"Christ, Mike. That was amazing," John said.

Mike chuckled. "Yes, just wait for the second half, it gets better."

John nodded. He waited, restless, for the curtain to rise so that he could reimmerse himself into the story. As the lights final dimmed, John spared one more thought.

Cathy was wrong. So dead wrong. The athleticism of rugby was not the same as the grace and power of ballet. Nowhere near. He couldn't do what Sherlock was doing, not for as long as he was up there. Rugby was short bursts of energy, not this long stamina that the dancers were displaying.

* * *

 

Sherlock was freaking out. Wiggins at Will Call had told him that John had shown up for one of his final performances. With another bloke. Wiggins couldn't describe him, he wasn't paying attention to the other man, only that John had come at last.

He was rubbing his hands and pacing back and forth, as he waited for his cue. He had stopped short of tugging at his hair because he wouldn't have had time to fix it before he went on stage.

Suddenly there was thump on the back of his head. "Ow!" he cried and turned to glare at the stage manager, Tobias Gregson. He was a tall, lean man, with a craggy face and grey curls. His blue eyes were piercing.

"What you fussing for?" Tobias growled. "Either he brought a date and only wants to be friends; in which case it's better you know now anyway. Or he brought a friend for support because he's in love with you and is feeling too nervous to go it alone."

Sherlock took a deep breath. "You always know what to say."

"That's because I'm older, I've been in your shoes. Now go out there and dance with all your heart. Show him that no matter who he's with and why, you are worth it."

Sherlock frowned. "Worth what?"

"Everything."

"I don't understand," Sherlock complained.

Tobias laughed. "You will."

Sherlock shook his head, but didn't have time to think about it, as that was his cue. He walked to the middle of the stage, got into position, and took a deep breath. He let the music from the orchestra wash away his fears. This is who he was. This is what he loved. People come and go, but he always had the music.

He let go.

* * *

 

Critics raved for _weeks_ about how that performance was the best of Sherlock's career. That it was the best that anyone had ever danced in the role of Siegfried. That Sherlock Holmes was finally back in his element.

Sherlock? He was in his dressing room panicking further. Did John see how well he did? Did John see how much he put his heart into it?

That was where Victor found him twenty minutes later. Sherlock had only removed the bulkiest bits of costume, half his make up, and part of his hair was sticking up where he had run his fingers through just the one side.

Victor took him in and sat him down. "Clean off your makeup, get out of your costume before Sally pitches a fit that you haven't returned it yet, and for fuck's sake get your act together. You're a grown man, act like it."

Sherlock gulped, but did what he was told. Soon he wasn't Prince Siegfried, who sacrificed his life to be with his love forever, but Sherlock Holmes, a pretty dancer, who was in love with a rugby player named John Watson.

"What if he brought James, Victor?" Sherlock murmured. "I don't think I'd survive this time."

"You came out of your relationship with Richard just fine," Victor said. "You just put on the best show of your career and he's teaching teenagers in Nowheresville, America."

"But-" Sherlock protested.

"That's in the past. You made it. You came out on the other side a better person. And he's just a bitter old man. "

Sherlock let out a shuddering sigh. "Okay."

"Good, now get out there and go snag yourself a hot rugby player," Victor insisted, all but pushing his friend out the door.

Sherlock looked around the hall, knowing that Tobias would have let John and his guest backstage.

Just then a streak of pink went shooting by and he thought he could make out over the sonic boom, "Mike!"

He looked to see Molly jumping into the arms of Mike Stamford. Standing next to the very happy couple was an amused John Watson.

They locked eyes across the hall and Sherlock couldn't breathe as the rugby player moved through the crowd toward him.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, darlings. It has been a really busy few weeks for me, as well as a bad case of dizzy spells that are horrendous, but with any luck, you'll get two chapters this week to make up for it. 
> 
> Thanks to Old Ping Hai, who is an absolute gem. I don't what I would do without her.

"You were absolutely brilliant, Sherlock," John said as he neared the dancer.

Sherlock blushed. He looked furtively at Molly and Mike and then down at the floor, feeling very embarrassed. He should have realized that John wouldn't bring a _date_.

"Hey," John said, cupping Sherlock's cheek and gently moving his head so John could see the expression on its face clearly. "Did you think I brought someone else?"

Sherlock shook off John's hand and turned away.

"Oh Sherlock!" John took the dancer's face in his hands. "You daft git, I _love you_!"

"Why?"

That brought John up short. "Why do I love you? Sherlock, why would you think otherwise?"

"I've never been enough for...anything or anyone." Sherlock's shoulders slumped. "I didn't tell the whole truth when I said I learned _pointe_ just to understand what my female co-stars were feeling. I did to stand out. The competition is fierce for male dancers and I had to do something to get noticed. I'm damn sure that the only reason that I still dance after...," Sherlock shook his head, "is because of sheer nepotism. My brother is on the board for the Royal Arts Society and his husband is the director."

"Sherlock, after what I just saw tonight, I can't believe you think that," John cried. "And if you are even half as good the rest of the time, you must be phenomenal."

Sherlock just shrugged.

John searched his face for clues as to what was going on.

"Is this about the drugs?" he asked after a moment.

Sherlock looked up at him in shock. "Who told–"

John took Sherlock's hand. "No one told me. It was all over the news outlets for weeks. 'Genius Dancer Too Stoned to Pirouette' was one of the least creative headlines."

"I was going to tell you, I promise!" Sherlock pleaded.

John pulled Sherlock closer to him, "I know you were, darling, I also know that you're clean."

Sherlock blushed. "You can't possibly now that."

"My sister is an alcoholic, I know what people look like when they are jonesing for a fix. Trust me, you display none of the signs."

Sherlock frowned, "Alcoholism and drug addiction are two different beasts, how could you possibly tell?"

John leaned in close and whispered, "I'm trained to be a medical doctor, I know what to look for."

Sherlock leaned back, startled. "But you're a rugby star, what would you need with a medical degree?"

"I'm a rugby player who knew going into the sport that I'd be retired at thirty-five and would need a post-sport career. Not a lot of people know. Mike does. Went to med school with him; my sister, of course; and now you."

"Why are you telling me?"

"Haven't I made that clear?" John asked. Sherlock shook his head. "What part of 'I love you', don't you understand?"

"You shouldn't, you know," Sherlock whispered.

"You don't get to make that decision for me, I'm afraid. What can I say that will convince you that I'm not going anywhere?"

"Nothing," Sherlock admitted softly.

"Right." John grabbed Sherlock's face with both hands and brought Sherlock down for a kiss. Sherlock was surprised for a moment before he wrapped his arms around John and melted into the kiss.

A cheer erupted behind them and they broke apart, breathless.

All round them Sherlock's friends and fellow dancers celebrated, Mike even joined in, but across the hall, standing in the shadows, there was one who was not pleased by this turn of events.

Mycroft Holmes had come out of his office to find out what the ruckus was about. When he saw that it was some pretentious jock putting the moves on his little brother, his brow grew thunderous. He tapped the tip of his umbrella harshly on the ground, its sound lost in the din of celebration.

Something must be done.

* * *

 

John had to run to the shops to get some things that he was running low on. He was getting ready to go on a long set of away games and didn't fancy having to shop abroad. Normally John loved the traveling, getting to meet fans in other countries, seeing the sights, eating the food...but with his and Sherlock's relationship still so new, it was hard to leave the dancer. Especially now that the Royal Ballet's season had ended. But John couldn't afford to miss so many games and so here he was, on his way to the shops.

He made it out of the shops with very little interactions with fans, and thought nothing of it when someone called out to him from a car, he just assumed it was to sign an autograph. So when he walked up to the window and was dragged into the car, forced between two very large thugs, he was very surprised indeed. Sitting across from him was a young woman typing a way at her Blackberry, not even paying attention to him at all.

"So are you the boss?" John asked.

She laughed and tossed her long brown hair. "No."

"You're not going to telling me where you're taking me, are you?" John asked after a moment of silence.

"No."

John nodded. He looked around the car and then up at the thugs. "Charming."

The young woman smirked.

"Are Croup and Vandermar going to be my jailers?"

The young woman shook her head again and without looking up from her Blackberry said, "They are only here to make sure you get to your destination safely."

John snorted. "Not my final destination, I hope."

Finally looking up from her phone, she said, "That really depends on you, John."

John opened his mouth to ask more questions, but decided it was better not to. At any case, they had arrived at their stop. Croup got out of the car and held the door open for John. Once he had exited, Croup got back in and the car drove off, leaving John in a dark, abandoned warehouse.

He looked around, but the only thing of note was a small wooden chair and a tall man in a pinstripe suit that could have fed his family growing up for a year. The man was leaning on an umbrella and watching John disdainfully.

"If this is some ploy to throw me off my game, you picked the wrong player. I'd suggest Kilpatrick or maybe Murray if you toss in something about ghosts."

"You're not frightened?" the man asked, his voice oozing public school and super posh.

"You don't seem very frightening."

The man chuckled. "Do sit down, Mr Watson, I wouldn't want to strain that hip of yours. Not after that nasty tumble you took in your first exhibition game."

John frowned. The only people who knew how badly he got hurt were him, the coach and Mike.

"No, thank you."

"As you wish. What is your association with Sherlock Holmes?" the man asked, kicking his umbrella, swinging it up to examine its tip.

John pursed his lips. "You know, I really think that is none of your business." He cocked his head to the side and the left corner of his mouth ticked up just a little.

The umbrella hit the pavement with a crack. "Of course it–"

John held up a hand. "It's none of your business. I don't care if you're family of Sherlock's, on the board of directors for the Royal Ballet, or even the god damned British government, you don't get a say in who _I_ see. If you have a problem with it, take it up with Sherlock," he said with snarl.

"I'm trying to protect him!" the other man growled. "Have you _seen_ what happens when sentiment gets in the way? You weren't there!"

"What happened?" John said with a frown.

"That _insect_ , Richard got Sherlock so wrapped up around him," the man gripped the handle of his umbrella until it turned his knuckles white, anger radiating up and down the lean figure, "that when he took off in the middle of the night with some Russian ballerina, Sherlock drowned himself in every addictive substance that he could get his hands on. I won't let it happen again. Not while I still have breath in my body."

The man shook with rage and barely contained fear. "I held his head as he vomited, his body as it was wracked with shocks and tremors. Listened as he sobbed about how was he supposed to live without that vile creature. I dragged Sherlock out the depths of hell and have the scars to prove it." He rolled up his right sleeve to reveal a nasty set of jagged lines. It looked like someone had dug their nails into the skin and tore it away.

"This is what he did when I suggested that he was better off without that devil's spawn. I can't- I won't go through that again."

"Mycroft!" a familiar voice cracked from the entranceway. John whipped his head around to see that Sherlock was standing there, his fists clenched at his sides.

"Sherlock!" John and Mycroft said together.

The dancer strode toward them like a man possessed.

"When Greg told me what you had done, I couldn't believe it," he said as he neared them. "But here you are. What the hell were you thinking?"

"Mummy made me promise to look after you," Mycroft said, lifting his chin up in defiance.

"Mummy? Who's Mummy?" John asked, confused.

"Our mother," Sherlock snapped. "Meet my brother, Mycroft."

John raised an eyebrow and then looked carefully between the two. Now having Sherlock in front of him, he could see the similarities in the profile and bearing.

"Does he kidnap all your boyfriends?" John asked, jerking his thumb at Mycroft.

"You're the first," Sherlock glowered.

"Huh," John said. "I'm pretty sure I'll be the last."

"You think very highly of yourself," Mycroft huffed.

John frowned and then did a double-take, eyes wide.

Sherlock's brow furrowed in confusion. "What?"

"He thinks I meant that I'm the last boyfriend you'd have," John explained. "Bit early for that, honestly."

Sherlock shrugged.

He rounded on his brother, "Did you offer him money to, what's the phrase? Oh yes, _bugger off_?"

Mycroft sniffed. "Of course not."

John snorted. "Only because you showed up before he could."

Mycroft kicked at his umbrella, not bothering to refute the statement.

"I'm a grown man, Mycroft," Sherlock said, "I don't need you to be a mother hen."

"I was merely showing my concern," Mycroft protested.

"By kidnapping John, dragging him to an abandoned building, offering him money to never see me again, and then leaving me to wonder where it all went wrong?"

Mycroft blinked as if he hadn't thought of that aspect of it.

"I'm taking John home now," Sherlock murmured. "And heaven help you, Greg is ready to spit acid for this little stunt you pulled."

"He'll come around eventually."

Sherlock shook his head, "Some day you'll use up all your chances."

He took John's hand and led him away from the rundown warehouse.

"I almost wish I could be a fly on the wall to see that argument," John admitted when they got far enough away.

Sherlock just chuckled and began nuzzling John's neck. "I watched you two for awhile, you were magnificent. You were never cowed by him."

"Well, he wasn't very frightening," John mumbled.

"I'm going to do awful things to you," Sherlock breathed into John's ear.

"I think you mean delightful if you keep with the current vein," John panted.

Sherlock nipped at John's throat and he let out a low moan.

"Oh god yes!"

Sherlock danced away playfully and led a merry chase to a car that was waiting for them. John laughed and followed happily.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, yes, that IS their first kiss. Sherlock is shy and John is wanting to go slow. ;)
> 
> Also a bit of "Neverwhere" for you Neil Gaiman fans. :D


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, darlings! As promised a second chapter within a week. 
> 
> A note of warning this chapter has a cliffhanger, so if you want to wait until the next one to read this one, I won't blame you. 
> 
> Another note, I warred with myself a long time whether or not to include this bit. I felt that just mentioning the event didn't have the same emotional impact, but still I argued with myself. It's not like the rest of the story. So I asked someone smarter than me. I asked my beta, Old Ping Hai. After reading the scene she agreed with me that it was too good to leave out. 
> 
> Trigger Warning (see note at the end)

John looked around at the dining hall of Angelo's, a little stunned. "I can't believe you were able to get us a table so quickly. When I suggested it, I thought for sure it would be our one-year anniversary before they could fit us in," he said with a laugh.

Sherlock smiled, warmed by the notion that John expected them to still be together after a year. "Apparently the owner heard what happened and had left a standing reservation for us. So, when I called Barbara asking when would be the earliest time they could get us a table, I was as shocked as you were by the response."

John's returning smile could light London for years. "It's still incredible," he said, as though Sherlock had everything to do with it.

Sherlock brought John's hand to his lips. "Not as incredible as being here with _you_."

John blushed.

"Mr Watson! Mr Holmes!" a booming voice cried from above them. "So good to see you at last. I was unfortunately out of town when the terrible incident occurred."

They looked up to see the boisterous celebrity chef, Angelo Bartolomeo, standing there with a candle in one hand and the wine menu in the other.

John smiled tightly and said by way of greeting, "Hello."

"I brought a candle, make it more romantic," Angelo said, beaming down at them, looking pointedly at their clasped hands.

Sherlock tried to withdraw his hand, but John held on to it tighter.

"Thank you," John murmured as the chef lit the candle.

"All drinks are on the house," Angelo said proudly. "And I will personally oversee your meal tonight."

John and Sherlock mumbled what drinks they wanted and the chef nodded. "I will make sure it gets out to you straightaway."

John and Sherlock looked at each other, not sure if he meant the drinks or if the chef meant to choose their meal for them. But before they could ask, Angelo had hurried back to the kitchen. Skipping.

"Wow, he's quite the personality," John breathed.

Sherlock laughed. "More inclined to insure we don't give his restaurant bad press than pleased to see us, I think."

"Oi!" John huffed, kicking Sherlock's shin under the table. "Shut it!" And just in time, as the chef had returned with their drinks.

He asked if they had decided on their meals. They nodded. Sherlock asked for penne pasta in a Gorgonzola sauce; John, a baked three-meat lasagna.

"Excellent! Excellent!" Angelo thundered. "I'll have it out to you soon."

Sherlock sighed. "Why do I have the feeling we are going to get preferential treatment all night?"

John sighed, too. This wasn't how he imagined dinner would go. "I don't like it either, love. But I'm sure it'll get better as the night wears on. He'll get too busy and forget all about us."

John was proven to be very wrong when the chef came up to refresh their drinks.

"A bottle of our best white wine, it will pair very nicely with your orders," Angelo said. "And I thought it would be charming if my nephew Mickey played for you while you ate."

"Played? Play what?" John asked.

"Violin, is very romantic, nothing quite like being serenaded on violin in an Italian restaurant, eh?" Angelo beamed.

"No!" Sherlock yelled. "I mean–no, thank you."

Angelo frowned. "What? You no like the violin?"

John hastened to soothe the chef. "You've already done so much for us, it would just be too much. Everything is just lovely as it is."

The line between Angelo's brows smoothed out some. "Are you sure?"

"Yes," Sherlock said firmly.

"All right," Angelo said skeptically, but he seemed mollified nonetheless.

After he had gone away, John turned to Sherlock. "You want to tell me what that was about?"

Sherlock winced. "I'm sure that Mikey–"

"Mickey," John corrected.

"Whatever," Sherlock said imperiously. "I'm sure that he thinks very highly of his nephew's playing, but have you ever heard a violin played badly? It makes seagulls sound pleasant in comparison."

"He could have been very good, you know," John pressed.

Sherlock shook his head. "There are very few people I can tolerate listening to without picking out the flaws, and they are all professionals."

"Picking out the flaws?"

Sherlock blushed and ducked his head. "I play," he mumbled.

"What?" John nearly screeched.

"Keep it down!" Sherlock hissed.

John blinked and then whispered, "You play the violin?"

Sherlock shrugged. "I don't like spreading it around. Very few people outside of my family know that I play."

"Why? It's amazing, why keep it a secret?"

"Because everyone wants to hear me play. Like I've stopped being me and turned into a performing monkey. No one asks you to prove you play rugby, but they always ask when you play an instrument. It's hell."

"I played clarinet in school." John smiled.

Sherlock looked up in shock. "Really?"

John laughed. "Yeah. Not very well. My teacher called the clarinet section angry, dying geese."

That got Sherlock to laugh too.

"Is there anything else you do, you magnificent creature? You dance, you play violin, just tell me you have a singing voice like that of a frog choir..." John said, but trailed off when he saw the blush creep up Sherlock's ears. "God damn it!"

"If it's any consolation, Mycroft sings better than I do," Sherlock said, looking up at John through his eye lashes.

"Not really, no," John grumped.

"We were both taught dance, singing, an instrument; violin for me, cello for Mycroft. Uh...fencing, figure drawing, horseback riding, um...I took up boxing a bit in high school."

"Boxing?" John asked. "Good lord, why? I get the other stuff, you poncy git, but boxing?"

"I had been taking ballet for a few years when the other boys found out. They thought that they could pick on the twink fairy," Sherlock said with a grimace.

"Ouch," John agreed. "But boxing helped with that?"

Sherlock chuckled. "A right hook into the jaw of the leader of the bullies to lay him low was proof enough that I wasn't a wilting violet. They gave me wide berth after that."

John let out a low whistle. "You keep it up?"

"Not the sparring. Takes way too much makeup to cover any bruises and scrapes that I would get in the ring, but I keep up with exercises."

"You never cease to amaze me, Sherlock Holmes."

Just then their food arrived, Angelo bringing the meal out himself. He waited until they took the first bite and once he got their approval, went merrily back to the kitchen.

"I hope this won't be a regular occurrence when we dine here," Sherlock murmured. "I just like a quiet meal when I go out. I'm sure it's worse for you."

John smiled softly. "It's all right, Sherlock."

But they made sure to stop and speak with Barbara on the way out. They explained how the extra attention made them uncomfortable, though everything else was fantastic.

Barbara nodded. "I'll make sure to let him know. He was just so excited that you had decided to come back. He was over the moon, especially after Julie had made such a mess of things before."

"It's all right, Barbara, honest," John soothed. "But we could hear the other patrons question why we had the attention of the chef."

"Oh dear, that couldn't have been very comfortable," Barbara murmured. "It'll be taken care of the next time you come back. And there will always be a standing reservation for you both. He was rather insistent about that."

With grudging acceptance they agreed to the standing reservation despite wanting to be treated like other patrons, then bade her goodbye before walking out to John's waiting car, hand in hand.

* * *

It was a rare night for Sherlock and John. Neither man had anything going on the next day. John had gotten permission to bugger off practice and Sherlock's schedule was clear until he began touring with the Royal Ballet in a few weeks in America for a special showing of their most recent production.

Sherlock offered to cook for John and perhaps play for him as well. John had been happily surprised when the dancer suggested it. He had been careful not to ask Sherlock to play for him after learning of Sherlock's distaste for being asked. So after being offered a chance to listen and to be cooked for, John was giddy.

Sherlock had prepared a salmon wellington with crisp potatoes and fried asparagus.

"Holy shit, Sherlock," John cursed after his first bite. "This is incredible. Where did you learn to make this?"

Sherlock just shrugged. "I grew up on dishes like this and I had the choice of learning to make it myself or hire a chef to get it wrong. I learned instead."

"You never cease to amaze me, Sherlock," John said around another bite. "You just keep coming up with more and more talents for me to be in awe of."

"I'm not talented, John." Sherlock stared John in the eye, very solemn, "Everything I've accomplished is from years of hard work and study. I do a lot things well and a couple things decently enough, and then there is my dancing...that isn't something I _do_ , it's something I am."

John swallowed and then nodded. John had only ever focused on two things. Rugby and medicine. He just didn't bother with anything else. But his boyfriend was a completely different creature. Sherlock went after everything he wanted to learn with desire to perfect his knowledge of it.

"Sorry, Sherlock. I didn't mean to offend you, I just wanted to tell you how much you impress me." John reached across the table to cover Sherlock's hand in his.

After dinner, Sherlock played a few of his own compositions to John's delight and admiration.

They were sitting on the sofa with the bottle of Scotch that had been John's contribution to the night, snuggling in front of the fire, when they heard a loud commotion at the front step. They jumped up and John went for the poker, while Sherlock dove for his phone.

John gripped the sturdy metal rod like a cricket bat and inched toward the main hall. He had almost got to the door when a nearby window shattered, spraying the room with glass. John ducked and held the poker aloft, ready for anything.

Well, almost anything. He wasn't expecting what he got. A young woman in a wedding dress with smeared makeup, brandishing two long pistols. Her wild eyes scanned the room before lighting on John. With a roar of rage she pointed both guns at John and screamed, "You!"

John cursed and dived backwards behind a door leading to another room just as she fired. Wood splintered all around him as the bullets struck his hiding place somewhere above his head.

"John!" Sherlock cried, as he came dashing out of the sitting room to the front hall. He skidded to a stop at the sight of the bride with the two guns, her mouth a twisted, garish line.

She turned her attention to Sherlock and her lips twitched upwards in what could barely be called a smile. "You!" She fired somewhere behind Sherlock and he cowered from the blast.

The front door swung open to reveal several police officers. She turned to smile at them as if they had come to _rescue her._

She swung back to Sherlock and began to sing above the police's shouts to put down her weapons.

"Do not forget me, Do not forget me, think of me still..." she sang, swaying back and forth.

Sherlock took a closer look at her and murmured, "Emelia?"

"Do not forget me, my love," she whispered and then placed one of the pistols in her mouth.

**BANG!**

The police rushed forward, but it was too late. She slumped to the floor gracefully, her eyes once wild, now glassed over with her death.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warning- Violence, stalking, and suicide by gun. 
> 
> I hope wasn't too over the top. Until next time, dear readers.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, everybody! I have come to wrap up that little cliffhanger from last time. And give a little of Seb/Jim tease for people. 
> 
> Thanks as always to my wonderful beta, who just makes everything better. If you know who I am, then you know who she is.
> 
> Just one more chapter go and it is mostly fluff and smut. So...yeah, good stuff.

Greg shook his head, "Christ, Sherlock. If there is anyone who would have a crazed fan, it'd be you." He ran his hands over his face as Mycroft rubbed his hand in circles on Greg's back, where they sat together on the sofa.

"Are you _seriously_ blaming Sherlock for this?" John asked from a nearby chair. Sherlock was curled up on his lap, barely aware of his surroundings.

Mycroft and Greg had taken the other two back to their flat after the police finished getting their testimonies about what had happened.

"God no!" Greg said, holding up his hands in defense. "I was just doing a shit job of trying to make a joke."

John glared at the director until he was sure of the man's sincerity.

Mycroft sneered. "Of course it's not Sherlock's fault. It's clearly John's."

"What!" John and Greg yelped. Greg moved away from Mycroft to look him the eye.

Mycroft rolled his eyes. "What I mean is that were John not in the picture, Miss Ricoletti would have remained only a devoted fan of Sherlock's and president of his fan club."

"Would you have remain single and lonely all my life, Mycroft?" Sherlock mumbled, at last joining the discussion.

"Not at all, I was merely noting that it was timing," he looked sidelong at John, "and perhaps your choice in partner, that caused Emilia Ricoletti to have the breakdown which resulted in her assault of your home, the attempted murder of yourself and John, and her eventual suicide."

"That's complete bullocks and you know it, Mycroft," John hissed.

"Do I?" Mycroft said archly.

"Yes, you do," John growled. "You were there when the police were telling us about her psychopathology. How they described her descent from being a fan to a stalker and if circumstances had been different, his murderer. As long he continued to not recognize her as his true love and just as the president of his fan club, the further she would descend. This is no one's fault but hers."

"You seem to know quite a lot about the matter," Mycroft's voice oozed disdain, "Personal experience?"

"As in, am I or someone I know insane?" John snapped. "No, but I am far more qualified to speak on the subject than anyone else here."

That made Greg sit up and take further interest in the proceedings. Sherlock rubbed his nose along John's jawline, trying to comfort him.

"What makes you more qualified?" Greg asked, when the silence stretched on for too long.

"When I took medical courses, I had to do one year of a psych rotation, which considering I was still playing, took closer to two years. So, yes. I am far better qualified than a ballet director and his politician husband."

Mycroft and Greg shared a glance, but it was Mycroft who spoke. "My apologies, _Dr_ Watson. I believe I let my prejudices against sport get the better of me."

"Thank you," John murmured. He stroked Sherlock's back, soothing the tense muscles he felt there. Sherlock slowly began to relax now that the air had been cleared, and calm descended.

"Have you thought about where you are going to stay until you find a new place, love?" John asked Sherlock.

Sherlock buried his head further into John's shoulder. "I want to stay with you, but you live too far from the Royal Opera House. And I can't go home."

John's heart ached for his lover. There was nothing John wanted more than to have Sherlock living with him, but it just wasn't feasible. While John didn't live on the other side of the city, neither was it an easy trip from his flat to the Opera House.

"Stay here," Greg piped up. "I could take you to work with me; after all, we'd be going to the same place."

Sherlock straightened up on John's lap and looked to his brother.

"Of course you can stay with us, Sherlock," Mycroft said, "I would feel so much better if you were someplace safe."

Sherlock nodded.

"I'll have someone send for your things," Mycroft said softly. "You won't have to go back if you don't want to."

Again the dancer nodded.

"What if it was my fault?" he asked quietly. There was a huge uproar from the other men.

"Of course it wasn't!" Mycroft hissed. "I was wrong to imply such things."

"But maybe if I hadn't been gay, I might have fallen in love her," Sherlock continued. "Maybe all this could have been avoided. Maybe I could have tried harder to understand my fans, to be more respectful of them, maybe she wouldn't have had to take such extremes to get my notice."

"Emilia Ricoletti was deranged before she had heard of you, Sherlock," John argued. "She was always going to fixate on someone. It could have been a sports figure like me or even an actor or musician. We don't know enough about her past to speculate about how, when, or why she decided on you. But it. Does. NOT. Matter."

"I'm with John on this one, Sherlock," Greg agreed. "You do not control the actions of others. And if you feel that you've done wrong, fix it. But she chose to do what she did. Not you."

Sherlock nodded, still not quite believing, but willing to bask in the comfort of their indignation at his thought that he could have done something differently to avoid this.

* * *

Sherlock stood at the top of the landing in his new home watching John, Bill, Mike, and a couple more of the rugby lads bring in box after box, directing them to various parts of the house.

John smiled at how happy Sherlock was with the new place. It was an Edwardian brownstone and was as cozy as it was secure.

"Oi!" Bill complained as he set the large box he was carrying down next to a couple of mismatched chairs. One a red, floral, upholstered monstrosity and the other a green leather and steel modern thing that somehow fit in with the rest of the décor, even with the awful wallpaper and threadbare rug.

"Why don't I see any of your ballet friends helping out? Why is it only us?" Bill groused.

Sherlock chuckled at the chorus of agreement from Mike and the others. "You don't have to try and lift someone over your head tomorrow."

The lads looked at each other with wide-eyed looks. "Oh."

They went back to work hauling in boxes and furniture without further comment. Once they had finished this load, Mike looked around with a frown.

"Not to bash the new place, Sherlock," he began, "but I've seen the other place a time or two dropping John off for the weekend, and this house doesn't even compare. What made you want to move here?"

John and Sherlock shared a panicked glance.

Bill held up his hands, "Whoa, whoa, wait a minute, what the hell happened that made you give that look?"

"Go ahead and tell them," Sherlock murmured.

John heaved a sigh. "Sherlock had a fan break into his home and shoot the place up."

There was a chorus of exclamations of surprise and concern.

"Shit!" Mike muttered. "Did they catch the bastard?"

Sherlock shook his head, "No need." He mimed putting a gun to his head and pulling the trigger.

"Fuck," Bill hissed. The others nodded.

"This is out of the way, and my brother has seen to it that this residence is outfitted with the best in security," Sherlock said.

They soon filed out to go get the next load, with John staying behind to help Sherlock unpack.

He looked around, happy that Sherlock had found a place so close to the Royal Opera House. During the two weeks Sherlock had been looking, John was on edge. Worried that Sherlock wouldn't be able to find something he liked that John could be close by for. But at this new place, the stadium was nearby and John could crash here after long practices.

"Don't listen to Mike, Sherlock," he said, as he unpacked some books, "this is a lovely house. It's perfect."

Sherlock smiled up at him. "Good." He chewed on his lip for a minute before he blurted, "Iwantyoutomoveinwithme!"

John blinked a moment or two trying to figure out what Sherlock had just said. His face lit up.

"You mean it? You want me to move in with you?" John asked.

Sherlock nodded shyly. John launched himself at his lover and kissed him hard.

"Yes! Oh, yes, Sherlock!" John said as he came up for breath.

* * *

John was enjoying the party for a change. He didn't use to enjoy these things before Sherlock came along. Even the dates he brought were only ever there for their own agenda. But Sherlock was only there for him. It was quite refreshing, really. But even when he didn't have a date, the sheer amount of posturing and flaunting of wealth was appalling.

John supposed it was where he came from. Most of the people in this room had been born to money. But he still remembered what it was like to be poor. It's why he loved his and Sherlock's new home. It was quiet and respectable, it didn't scream money or affluence, and that made it perfect. Yes, his lover came from money, but Sherlock didn't enjoy these kinds of parties, either. The only reason he had come to the last one was that Victor had dragged him.

The dancer had gone to get them more drinks. Not that John was finished with his, but it gave Sherlock something to do besides stand there next to John, fidgeting.

Bill had stopped by briefly to ask after Sherlock and the new digs, but had since wandered off to speak to their coach. So John was alone when he heard someone say, "Watson? Oh, it is you."

John turned to see the star full back for the Manchester rugby team, Sebastian Moran.

"Seb," John greeted.

"I wasn't sure it was you, You're just so short, but then scrum halves usually are."

John lifted his chin up. "The game's changing, mate. The scrum players are getting bigger, but what do I care, I'll be out before the coach decides to go with the times."

He looked up and down the other man's frame. "I see that you're still as indolent as ever. Put on at least a stone since the last time I saw you. Shouldn't you, I don't know, be actually working out instead of being here? With the suspension and all? Or are you just riding it out, like everything else you do?" John drained the last of his drink.

"I'm here to make the bigwigs look good," Seb said, running a hand through his hair.

"So a washed-up full back on his way out is supposed to make them look good? Damn, I'm glad I passed on Manchester."

"I'm good for business on and off field, Watson," Seb snarled. "Though I hear your escapades _off_ the field now involve taking it up the arse, or is it you who does the taking? A little shrimp like you, I bet you take it." Seb leaned forward and hissed every word.

John took a step back. "What the hell do you care for, Seb? This is rugby, mate. Most of us are gay, bi, pan or whatever. And it's not like I haven't had male lovers in the past, what's got your knickers in twist over this one?"

"Oh come on, Watson, you just need to add a bit more glitter and he's practically a faerie."

"What does it matter?" John asked again.

"Because he wants to know how much backlash he's going to get when he comes out with his very flamboyantly gay boyfriend," a voice drawled. John turned to see Sherlock standing there with two tumblers in his hands.

John took the glass from Sherlock, placing the empty one on a nearby table.

"So, you're Watson's little poofter, eh?" Seb said with a sneer.

Sherlock looked him up and down. "You know, for someone who got thrown out the Royal Opera Theatre because he had his hands down his boyfriend's trousers during intermission, you sure are homophobic. I guess what they say is true, the more closeted a gay man is, the more homophobic he becomes."

Seb took a swing at Sherlock, but his fist never got there. John stopped him by grabbing his wrist and twisting it. Seb struggled and security came running.

After security sorted everything out, Seb had been hauled away while the Manchester owners looked on in worry. John and Sherlock were nestled on one of the sofas nursing their drinks.

"Did Seb really get thrown out of the Opera House?" John asked.

"Oh yes, his boyfriend was a real piece of work, too," Sherlock replied.

"Oh? Not like it surprises me, but wow."

Sherlock nodded. "In addition to his proclivities toward public sex, the slimy little weasel was caught trying to break into the men's dressing rooms."

"Why wasn't he thrown out then?" John asked, snuggling closer to Sherlock.

"Because he claimed that he had merely gotten lost and because he was the son of one of the members of the board."

"Money buys all sorts of liberties that wouldn't be afforded to those without it," John said, shaking his head.

"Indeed."


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry. It was a combination of things, getting sick, writing a murder mystery for my birthday party, writing a slightly more explicit sex scene than I'm use to, and not wanting this story to be over with. 
> 
> I just hope this chapter makes up for the super long wait. 
> 
> Also thanks to my beta, who is, as ever, my rock and very, very good at what she does. Old Ping Hai, you're the best.

John didn't like it. America was where Sherlock's ex was. But as much as he wanted to let his lizard brain take over and tag along with the company during their tour, he had his own touring to do, being on the road for what was going to be a lot of away games with his team. So he was sitting on the bed watching his lover pack for his trip.

Sherlock stopped in the middle of laying out a couple of his suits when he saw John's hangdog expression. "Oh, for Christ's sake, John!" he huffed in frustration. "I'm going to be fine. I'll be too tired to do anything but crash after each performance."

John sighed. "I know, I'm not worried that you'll step out on me or whatever. It's Emilia and Richard and...you know what forget it."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and sat down next to him. "It's a large country, John. Richard would actually have to give a damn to come to one of my shows, and trust me when I say he doesn't."

John nodded. He knew that. He did. Everything just felt so new between them and leaving like this for several weeks made him nervous.

"And as for the notion that another stalker might come after me, may I remind you that my meddling, interfering, older brother has provided the security for this trip, I doubt I'll be able to sneeze without him knowing." Sherlock bumped his shoulder into John's. "We'll be fine, John," he whispered.

John kissed Sherlock. Soon the kisses turned heated and it was a while before Sherlock returned to his packing.

Because of some mix up or another with Sherlock's flight, it was actually John who ended up leaving on tour first.

Not that that helped John's nerves any.

"I'll be fine," Sherlock impressed upon him for the tenth time since they left their home.

John nodded, but hugged his lover fiercely. "I'll miss you so, so much."

Sherlock indulged John a little and wrapped his arms around the rugby player. "I'll miss you, too."

John kissed Sherlock goodbye before turning and getting on the private jet that would take him far away from the love of his life.

* * *

It had been a grueling pace on the road, and in the end they were slaughtered by the German team. John was exhausted. Physically and mentally. All he wanted to do was shower and then crash in their bed. A bed that would be absent of one Sherlock Holmes, who was on the last leg of his summer tour in America.

He was bone-weary tired. That could be the only explanation.

John trudged up the stairs, his sports bag draped over his shoulder. He kicked in the door to the sitting room with his foot, the door had only been partially closed. He threw his bag on the floor and kicked it viciously for good measure.

He wished that he could just curl up with Sherlock and get some much-needed sympathy cuddles. On his way to the kitchen to grab a beer before that much needed shower, he passed a brightly smiling Sherlock holding a bouquet of flowers.

"Hey, Sherlock," John muttered as he shuffled past. He was so focused on the thought of a cool drink he missed the crestfallen expression on Sherlock's face, the lovely meal on the dining room table and the wine chilling next to his beer. He pulled it out and took a sip after popping the lid off. He blinked for a few seconds as his brain finally processed what he had seen.

The beer bottle fell to the floor with a clatter and a splash as John ran back through the dining room and into the sitting room where Sherlock stood, flowers hanging by his side and the most awful hangdog expression John had ever seen.

"Sherlock!" John cried happily as he barreled into his lover.

Sherlock barely managed to stay standing as the bouquet went flying in a hail of petals. He put his arms around John and breathed a sigh of relief.

John kissed him over and over, then swung Sherlock around in his arms, the dancer laughing out loud.

"When did you get home?" John gasped as he finally let Sherlock's feet touch the ground. "I thought you had another week in...California, wasn't it?"

Sherlock nodded, "Our last venue had to be canceled due to faulty wiring, among other things. The spotlights kept shorting. One of the chorus girls was almost crushed by a sandbag weight that had snapped its tether."

"Fuck," John breathed. "Anyone I know?"

Sherlock shook his head, "She's fine, just frightened. That was the last straw for Lestrade, actually."

"That doesn't sound like a place that he would have chosen to begin with," John said with a frown.

"It had changed hands since he signed the contract. The new owners had been cutting corners wherever they could."

"Well, their loss is my gain," John said as he nuzzled Sherlock's neck.

Sherlock chuckled. "Enough about me, I saw that last match...are you all right?"

John looked up into his lover's concerned expression and just had to kiss him again. "I'm not sure what was more soul crushing, the fact that they were the better team or that the referees were actively trying to slant the game in our favor and we _still_ lost."

Sherlock wrapped his arms around John's waist and drew him in close. "Their scrum line was as big as their props, so they ended up literally bowling you over."

John nodded. He was done for the season and he and Sherlock had six lovely weeks to themselves before the dancer had to go back to the Opera House to begin the next ballet season. And this was the best way to start it.

"I saw the lovely meal in the dinning room," John murmured into Sherlock's neck, dragging his lips across that long column of throat. "Did you cook for me again?"

"Yes," Sherlock panted.

"Then let's not make it go to waste," John said, only moving far enough away to look the tall dancer in the eye. "And then afterwards, I am planning on doing all sorts of indecent things to you."

Sherlock nodded, breathless.

"Come along, then." John took Sherlock's hand and led him to the table where a veritable feast was laid out. Sherlock had made all of John's favorite dishes and the rugby player knew they would be eating the leftovers for days.

"It looks marvelous, Sherlock," John said with a grin. "You've really outdone yourself."

Sherlock shook his head. "I just wanted everything to be perfect."

John pulled his lover in for another hug. "Love, you could have shown up with takeaway and you and I would have been over the moon."

They sat down and ate, talking about their trips even though they had spoken on the phone and video chatted as often as possible. There was always a new story to be told or a different aspect of an old one to be revealed.

Just as John was finishing his dessert, Sherlock got up and left. He came back a few minutes later dressed only in his bathrobe and gently drew John to his feet. John without question followed his lover and was surprised when instead of the bedroom, they had made their way to the bathroom.

Sherlock slowly, painstakingly removed John from his clothing. He helped his lover get into the tub before dropping his dressing gown to the floor.

John took in the exquisite sight of his boyfriend's long, lean form as Sherlock joined him in the tub. The dancer was gentle as he washed John's body and then his hair. John was enveloped in the love and affection that was pouring out of Sherlock as he washed away John's disappointment, stress and weariness, leaving the rugby player in a state that was pure bliss.

John was ready to return the favor by the time they finally got to the bedroom.

"You absolutely gorgeous thing," John whispered as he lay Sherlock on the bed. Sherlock looked up, his hair in disarray on the pillow, his cheeks flushed from the bath and the pleasure of what was about to happen next, his eyelids drooping suggestively. John crawled up on to the bed and caged his lover in with his arms and legs.

"I plan on taking you apart, inch by glorious inch," John breathed into Sherlock's neck, the dancer moaning as his eyes drifted close.

John kissed every inch of that lovely column of flesh. Sherlock's hands gripped John's shoulders, desperate to hold on to something. John chuckled as he gently guided those magnificent fingers lower and settled them on his waist.

"Oh!" Sherlock breathed as John's lips found his nipple and he arched into the touch. John raised with him and trailed his hand down Sherlock's side to rest it on the dancer's hip. He moved to suck on the other nipple and Sherlock's gasp turned into a moan as he hit the bed.

"You make the most amazing sounds," the rugby player whispered into the other man's stomach. John settled between the dancer's thighs.

"You know," he murmured as he continued his journey further down, "I have a hard time choosing the most delectable part of you."

"God!" Sherlock hissed as John carefully lifted one of his legs up on his shoulders.

John kissed the inner thigh, "There's this bit. So tight and oh so toned. I'm so jealous of the legs on you."

"Ah!" was all Sherlock could say in response.

John's other hand caressed Sherlock's stomach. "Then there's this part, it makes you scream when I do this," he bent down and nipped next to the belly button; and as if on cue, Sherlock screamed in pleasure.

"And of course we can't forget this beautiful thing," John rasped and took Sherlock's cock into his mouth. Sherlock jackknifed off the bed and curled his body around John, his hands gripping the rugby player's head, trying to grasp at the short strands, his leg still draped over John's shoulder.

John sucked and licked his way up and down Sherlock's cock, causing the dancer to breathe faster and faster, his moans and gasps fading away as John blew him to his climax.

Sherlock came with a loud shout of pleasure and flopped on the bed, completely sated.

John chuckled, "But I have to say that my favorite part is right here." He lifted Sherlock's other leg and buried his face between Sherlock's cheeks.

Sherlock wailed as John licked his way in and out of his hole. Sherlock flailed wildly for the lube on the nightstand and finally laid hold of it. He tossed it in his lover's general direction.

John patted around for the bottle as he continued his ministrations. When he found it at last, he fumbled with the cap on handed before Sherlock took pity on him and opened it for him.

John lifted his head. "Thank you, love."

Sherlock nodded.

John slicked up his lover first and then himself. He slowly levered himself forward until he pierced the outer ring. Sherlock cried out and John stopped to let his lover get used to the feeling. Once Sherlock gave the go ahead, John slid all the way in and they both moaned.

John grabbed Sherlock's hips and used them to gently glide in and out of his lover. Every nerve ending sparked in John's mind.

Sherlock fisted the blankets and let out little gasps of pleasure as John chased his own climax, keeping it nice and easy, drawing out both their pleasure.

Finally John could feel it build up higher and higher, until with one shuddering sigh, he came buried deep into Sherlock.

He tenderly put Sherlock's legs back on the bed and slid out. He moved to his lover's side and pulled him close.

"You are the most amazing, incredible creature in this whole world, Sherlock," he breathed into Sherlock's skin.

"Only you would think so," Sherlock replied, wrapping himself around John's smaller frame.

"I'm sure that's not true, but thank you all the same," he replied.

Sherlock lifted his head a little and looked down at John. "Why 'thank you'?"

"Because you saying that means you think the only one suited for a Sherlock Holmes is a John Watson. And I can think of no higher compliment."

They settled until they were nearly drifting off to sleep when John murmured, "Do you believe in fate?"

Sherlock roused slightly, "I don't believe in coincidence, if that's what you're asking; the universe is rarely so lazy."

"I'm a little fonder of the universe, then, if it thought we should meet," John muttered, drifting off to sleep.

Sherlock snuggled in close and just before slumber overtook him, he said, "Me, too."


End file.
